SARA COLERIDGE

A thousand and a thousand silken leaves The tufted beech unfolds in early spring,

All clad in tenderest green,

All of the self-same shape:

A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, Each year sends forth, yet every mother views

Her last not least beloved

Like its dear self alone.

No musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped The face to-morrow's sun shall first reveal, No heart hath e'er conceived What love that face will bring.

O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath,

As when it deeply sighs

O'er autumn's latest bloom.

��The Child

��OEE yon blithe child that dances in our sight! ^ Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright ?

Fond mother, whence these fears ? While buoyantly he rushes o'er the lawn, Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood's dawn,

Nor dim that sight with tears.

No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours, But feels as if the newly vested bowers

For him could never fade : Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet, But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet,

Our loss is overpaid.

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